


The Pilgrim Moon

by MarshmallowPeeps



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27378553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarshmallowPeeps/pseuds/MarshmallowPeeps
Summary: In the last days of Jedha, two Guardians of the temple face the future together.
Relationships: Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	The Pilgrim Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [BaronVonChop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronVonChop) for support and editing, as always!

When it begins, the invasion feels inevitable. Everyone knows the Empire has been marching forth, further and further, and even cold, distant Jedha is no longer so remote. Some depart as soon as the white-armored troopers appear, but most stay. It’s their home, after all.

In the temple, the Guardians make plans. They must protect the holy city and its people. They know the only reason the Imperials care about this place at all is the crystals. There’s a rumor, too persistent to be false, that the Empire is making a terrible weapon, and the kyber is the key to its creation. Unspeakable, abhorrent, to think they would debase the Jedi’s sacred craft to such use.

Chirrut is eager to push the Imperials out; there’s not so many of them yet, and the Guardians have many friends among the populace. They could be routed in a cycle, maybe less! But Baze watches as more ships come, pouring out troops. The fight has not even started and they have already run out of time.

* * *

Soon, skirmishes in the streets are common. Doors and windows are boarded up, merchants withdraw like turtles into their shells. The spaceport, always lively, now buzzes with the poison clamor of fear as crowds try to flee. Far too many tangle with the Imperials and never make it off the docks.

The temple has its defenders, a sizable assembly of the believers and the brave. In a city of many faiths, the Guardians have always had the strongest tradition of martial practice. The other orders send their mystics and champions to stand with them, and locals and pilgrims alike join their ranks as well. 

But they do not have the armament to match their enemy, with their war machines and seemingly endless, identical soldiers. The Guardians direct their people to work in small teams, moving quietly and withdrawing quickly. Chirrut grins and plunges into the perilous game of cat and mouse. He rides the currents of the Force, taking a deft hand to sabotage. It brings him a fierce kind of satisfaction to hear the groan of metal twisting, or to smell the bitter smoke of cables melting. But best of all is the cursing of the troops, the clack of plastoid on rock as they throw their helmets down in frustration.

Though it has been many years since he’s held a gun, Baze carries a rifle, discomfited at how familiar it feels. But he spends most of his time with the other groups, trying to get the citizens to shelter, or at least farther away from the temple. It takes no small amount of negotiation, and occasional pushing and shoving, to move the people out of their homes. He understands, though - on Jedha, harsh and hard, only the stubborn remain. He hates to see them scared and angry, but he hates more to think of them bleeding into the dust. So he sets his face in a grim frown and knocks on another door.

* * *

In the small dark before dawn, or the hazy moments in the afternoon - the too-brief scraps of time they steal for themselves - Baze and Chirrut sit together. He holds his hands, he cradles his head against his arm. Chirrut breaks a cake in half and offers it to Baze. Baze takes the smaller half. Chirrut pretends not to notice. They talk. Chirrut sighs, wishing aloud for a nap. Baze tells a bad joke and Chirrut laughs until he snorts. They hold each other. They kiss. There is, just for now, a measure of solace.

* * *

Skirmishes become a war. For all their efforts, the Guardians and their allies are not an army. As they falter and their numbers dwindle, a man named Saw Gerrera arrives on the moon. He is torn and battered from long years of fighting for the Rebel Alliance, but he has come with his own fight now. He brings his militia, and many Jedhans join him.

Chirrut fumes, but he cannot really blame them. Saw is their best hope. The Guardians are too few and too poorly armed. Why did we never prepare? he demands.

How could we? Baze returns. More than ever, he feels the tug of despair. How could anyone stand against something like the Empire, so vast, so hideously rich with power.

Maybe we should join Saw also, they say to each other. He is a bold leader, ferocious in battle, giving his all to the cause of freedom. He has the skill and the determination to turn the course. But it becomes too obvious that Saw and his militia care nothing for the people. They want only to smash the Empire, and they are heedless of any who fall along the way.

In return, the Imperials deploy their strength with abandon. For every tank or tower ruined by Chirrut and the others, new ships bring in two more. The rumble of artillery becomes a constant layer of sound, punctuated more and more by the shriek of blaster fire.

The Guardians have scavenged bits of armor, each adding what they can, the uniformity of their robes changed into an odd collection of steel, plastoid, ceramic. They clank and rattle when they walk through the temple, the halls echoing with the absence of people.

Baze takes an hour he does not have to sit among the crystals. He knows he will never see them again.

* * *

The Empire has lost its patience. Their wrath comes as an impossibly massive ship, which hangs over the holy city like a frozen storm. Their armies flood the streets and finally, it happens. The temple is taken.

Running through the riot of dust and smoke and blood, Baze and Chirrut know the battle is lost. Their friends, their family in the Guardians, their home - everything is gone. Imperial boots breach the doors and trample into the hallowed space.

We should make one last attack, Baze says. Take as many of the enemy with us as we can. The iron in his voice shatters as he says, We could destroy the kyber to keep it out of the Empire’s grasp.

There is a certain dreadful glory in the idea. But they know there is no way to do enough damage to keep the Imperials out. They care so little for life, they will throw soldier after soldier after their prize until they have it.

But Jedha still has need of Guardians, says Chirrut.

The Guardians failed, Baze snarls, the Force was not with us. It’s over.

Chirrut turns Baze towards himself. His face is full of rage and weariness. There are people yet alive here, he says. We can’t give up now. And then he says something very strange. I dreamed of white sands, he says. White sands and blue waters. We need to be there.

It’s so unexpected it knocks Baze out his dark thoughts. All right, he finds himself saying. We’ll be there.

* * *

The mining begins. There is a sound like thunder, but it comes from below, as the Imperials detonate charges beneath the temple. The ground shudders. Soon the air is thick with debris, and unlike the dust storms which blow in from the desert and sweep out after an hour or so, this dust stays dense over the city. For the Empire’s machines dig ceaselessly, spewing gritty red dust into the sky. It turns deep red, almost dark as night, an eerie reversal of nature. The city chokes, but the Imperials in their helmets carry on with the business of war.

All citizens have scarves, masks, and goggles for the weather - but never have they had to wear them day in and day out. Even when the worst of the dust clears, it doesn’t really go away. Chirrut and Baze become almost accustomed to the constant stinging of their eyes, the roughness of their throats. There is dust always on their clothes, under their nails, in their food and drink.

They know the dust is the desolation of their lives.

It’s not just the loss of the temple, its ancient mysteries and lore, the art of history and faith etched patiently into its walls by the devoted. That loss is great, too vast to hold, really. But there are also the smaller things. The bookseller’s stall where Baze would play dejarik with the old-timers. The sweetshop owner who would give them a little bag of candied locusts for the novices. The Toribota scholar who often invited Chirrut to her terrace to debate philosophy. The children of various clans, running together in the narrow streets. The people, so many people. The hardest part is that there is no time to grieve.

Baze and Chirrut do what they can to aid the Jedhans and harry the Imperials. In between, they hide in alleys or abandoned buildings. Sometimes a friendly hand will beckon and they will have shelter and a meal for the night. It’s a terrible risk for all, but they are grateful.

* * *

Chirrut knows when the first crystal is taken. He feels it, like the soul of the planet has dimmed. Baze had thought that nothing could be worse than seeing the temple fall; but he looks at Chirrut and knows he was wrong.

* * *

Saw Gererra’s militia continues to clash with the Imperial troops. Houses crumble, and empty marketplaces are covered in broken stone and broken bodies. Any hope of a swift end has vanished, and those who remain dig in for a brutal siege.

Baze has long since shed his robes, instead wearing dock workers’ coveralls and armor he has scavenged. The armor was awkward and heavy at first, but nothing like the weight he carries in his heart. His hair, already a bit shaggy, has gotten long enough that he can wear it in two plaits. (Chirrut doesn’t say anything when he touches that hair and recognizes the mourning braid.) Grief is ever with Baze, a sorrow that threatens to pull him down, down into silent depths. But there is also an anger that goes deeper, the sort that burns hard enough to hide the gentleness of his eyes, and it keeps him trudging on.

Chirrut’s smile has become a brittle, searing thing. He laughs as much as ever, but the sound has a cutting edge. He wears his robes proudly, with hardly any gear to obscure the distinctive black and red, and keeps his hair shorn close as often as he can, as if out of spite. He chants the oldest, simplest mantra so often it turns into white noise. (Baze wants to ask if Chirrut truly still believes, but is afraid to hear the answer, whatever it might be.) Never fearful, Chirrut verges now on recklessness, moving with a speed and daring that seems to belong to a man half his age. There is an intense, almost desperate drive to him, even - or especially - when the odds are bad.

Sometimes they argue. Yelling across a firefight, whispering furiously under a half-demolished shack, sobbing into each other’s shoulders. You need to be more careful. You’re being too cautious. You can’t take that risk. You can’t make my choices. This won’t work. This is all we can do. It’s not worth it. It’s the only thing that matters.

But always, by the end, they come back together: I’m here for you. We’ll make it. White sands and blue waters.

* * *

The days blur into a smear of dust and horror. They strike, run, hide, strike again. Smuggle supplies, carry the injured, fight off patrols so citizens can escape. They tend each other’s wounds, hold each other as they shake. Somehow, life goes on in the city, or what’s left of it; nothing is like it was before, each day a new trial.

The immense Imperial ship continues to cast its shadow over the city, greedily taking in the kyber crystals as if it deserves them. Saw's forces have burrowed into the old catacombs just outside the city; no one can spare any outrage for the desecration. The war heaves on, and small victories become fewer. Sometimes survival is the only thing they can claim, and even that feels precarious.

Exhaustion sinks its blunt claws into their flesh. Still, they cannot stop, cannot lie down and let the fighting bury them in the debris. For Chirrut, the Force roars like a overflowing river, threatening to drown him in the cries of those lives around them. So he bares his teeth and pushes on. Sometimes Baze finds his body moving like a droid on a pre-programmed route, unable to recall why he is doing what he does. But the memories of their friends bring more pain than comfort, stirring the ashes inside him. So he goes on anyway.

Then, something shifts. It’s hard to say what, exactly. But there’s a feeling like when the wind changes direction - something different is coming. Something better, something worse? Either way, they must be ready.

At least, that’s what Chirrut says. Baze isn’t sure if Chirrut is just making it up to give him a story, or if Chirrut really means it. But then he says They’re here, in a way that forces Baze to peer closely into the street. There’s no one that looks particularly remarkable, but then Baze sees the dark-haired man - so ordinary, and he’s so good at hiding it, but that familiarity with death is unmistakable. There’s a young woman with him, eyes glittering dangerously.

Chirrut smiles, and for once, the terrible sharpness fades slightly. He reaches to Baze, and they hold hands as the future comes to them.

**Author's Note:**

> I have two multi-chapter fics I should be working on, but this year has been rough and I haven't really written at all. But I had to write this, and most of it came all in one day this September. (I remember it was shortly after the awful wildfires in California, where I live.) I finished the last bits today, and as I post this, it's the night of the US election. I don't know if it's kind to talk about hope in times like these, but maybe this story can give a little something to help with the days ahead. At least it was cathartic for me.


End file.
